“They’ve got ladders,” said Corleth, hair whipping about her clenched jaw, standard of the Long Eye whipping above her.

“Lot o’ ladders,” said Shivers.

“Lot of everything,” said Rikke. “Let’s hope they don’t have cannons!” She barked a laugh but nearly puked on it, had to awkwardly swallow an acrid little tickle in her throat. “They don’t have cannons, do they? What’re those wagons?” She squinted through her eyeglass. “Are those… bones?”

“That’ll be Stand-i’-the-Barrows. Those boys from past the Crinna always had some funny notions. Stranger-Come-Knocking was wild for plumbing, as I recall.”

“Well, who wants to die at the hands of a man with no hobbies?” Rikke took a hard, cold breath and blew it out. One way or another, it’d get finished today. The scores that began when Scale Ironhand invaded the Protectorate, all those months ago. Scores way older than that, even. When her father told Black Calder he’d cut the bloody cross in him at the Battle of Osrung. When Black Calder killed Forley the Weakest years before. When her father and the Bloody-Nine fought for Bethod, and then against him, all across the North and back and left a trail of corpses both ways. One feud growing from another, blood flowing from blood, all settled today. Or maybe it was folly to think so. Maybe it’d just be new feuds started.

“I’m excited!” called Rikke, stretching up on tiptoes and forcing out a grin, like she knew just what was coming even if she was bubbling over with doubts. She clapped Corleth on the shoulder. She liked doing it. Her shoulders had a meaty, reassuring feel. “You excited?”

Corleth swallowed. “Honestly, I’m shitting myself.”

“Two ways of saying the same thing.” Rikke rubbed at her belly, tried to kick the aches out of her legs. “By the dead, that’s sore.”

“You all right?”

“Just the moon pains. Blood came last night.”

“Huh. Me, too.”

“Fancy that, our wombs have found a rhythm! Same thing happened with Isern.” And Rikke gave a wistful sigh. “Reckon it’s time to get Stour out of his cage.”

“Aye,” said Corleth, and she trotted to the steps.

Shivers was frowning out into the fields, sunlight glinting on his metal eye as the clouds shifted. “Doubt that’ll be the only blood that comes today,” he said.

Calder stood, hands on hips, glaring towards Carleon. The city he’d ruled the North from for twenty years. Had to hurt, having it stolen by a girl with a magic eye. Had to hurt, having to beg for the life of his only son.

But then, you reach a certain age, everything hurts.

“Clover,” he grunted, “I want you next to me.”

“’Course, Chief. Though battlefields do give me a rash.”

“We’ll all have to tolerate some discomforts today. Got a horse for you.”

“Grand,” said Clover, with heavy sarcasm.

He’d owned a horse once, long time ago, but only ’cause it was the type o’ thing folk expect a famous warrior to own. Didn’t think he’d ever ridden it. Except once, when he bought it, pretending he wasn’t scared witless he’d fall off, and only ’cause it was the type o’ thing folk expect someone to do when buying a horse. Rest of the time it just stood in a stable, looking sad, eating his hay and costing him money. Strange, how much of his time he’d spent worrying about what people expect. You’d have thought the one upside of being a famous warrior was doing whatever you pleased.